Forsooth, I've slain my plants, what shall I do?
Diana’s verdant gift hath not prevailed.
My firecracker plants are lain to waste
As if a blight from Hades breath
was summoned here. Their tendrils
cracked and dried and black and brittle,
no more will they the sunlight seek again.
What now, I ask thee, shall this gardener do?
What hanging plant, like Nisus’ crimson locks
unshorn cascading down from heaven’s perch,
shall now replace these dull and inky fronds?
What new arrival shall not need such care
as was forgotten—left to wither here?
O whither shall I go to seek a vine
as will provide a simple, stoic bloom
that, as the spark in Helen’s eye begat
the epic launching of a thousand ships,
shall provide a thousand wistful smiles
as striding past, we notice day-to-day?
Do tell, good jelly, how I may repair
the blunder turning foul that once was fair?
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